


Dust Fragments

by Vivian



Series: Morgengrauen [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Daddy Issues, Drug Use, Incest, M/M, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Vampires, no sparkling though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:24:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian/pseuds/Vivian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a tumble Legolas searchs for his father and finds him. He follows him around the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dust Fragments

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【Translation】Dust Fragments](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2782691) by [suirin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suirin/pseuds/suirin)



> Well, I thought: This pairing has not enough fanfics.  
> Then this happened. I regret nothing.  
> Enjoy.

It's a secret in the open. And everybody thinking it's a lie makes it so easy to show the truth.  
Legolas observes him.  
The mad king. With his hip long, champagne-coloured hair, with his crown of leaves. The arch of his lips, whispering of centuries outlived. And under his dark, thick brows his eyes shimmer, still young and beautiful. His sharply cut jaw-bones speak of hardship but his shoulders are straight without any weight to carry. He moves with the grace of a panther. His steps and gestures seem light, but Legolas knows it's discipline and muscle work.  
Now the mad king tilts his head. His hair following the movement ever so slightly. And Legolas knows, even though the stage light pierces the eyes and blocks out a man's view, that he is looking at him. There is no smile on his lips now, but viciousness glimmering in the corner of his eyes. Of course. He never thought he'd go unnoticed. 

The show is over, the applause is fading. Legolas waits.  
While doing so, he orders a bottle of wine. He opens a new pack of cigarettes, but before he can light the cigarette a waiter steps forward and does so for him. He thanks him with a nod and breathes in the smoke. The place is small, exquisite with the Carara-marvel floor, the 500 pound bottles of champagne, the popcorn and sweets they put in the rooms before the bathrooms. And yet not one of the more costly places. It's average-rich people spending their average 10000 pound a night. He nibs at his glass of wine and watches the table next to him. A young woman with braces and violet hair invites her guests for another round. 

“The oil flows richly in Dubai,” a voice whispers behind him. He turns around and looks into pale-blue eyes. The mad king, no longer dressed in his long gown. He wears a black silk shirt and linen slacks, tailored and at least two centuries old.  
“My lord Thranduil,” Legolas says and bows his head.  
“Son,” he replies and sits down next to him, “what business brings you here?”  
For a heartbeat he dares not to look up, meet these fierce glacier-ice eyes again. Then his chin is tilted upwards by Thranduil's fingertips.  
“Speak,” he requests.  
“It's … it's no business matter,” Legolas murmurs and averts his gaze.  
“What else?”  
“It's been so many years … and I, I have …” he trails off.  
“You have missed my company.”  
“Yes.”  
At that Thranduil laughs without mirth, stands up with his glass still in hand.  
“You have yet so much to learn, boy.”

 

He sees him again two years after Dubai. It's winter and Berlin is freezing. The sky is steel-grey and no-one remembers how to smile.  
He notices him when he exits the S-Bahn at Hackischer Markt, a predator within a herd of prey. It could be chance of course, but it never is when his father is concerned. He whirls around in a splash of flaxen hair and light-grey cashmere. This time Thranduil smiles.  
His heart beats faster. 

He does not remember a time when his father was not a mystery to him. Even at the beginning when curiosity and kindness were more present in his eyes, he never knew of his thoughts. All he could do was suck up everything that was offered to him, take it all in. And starve when his father's interest started to fade.  
He still doesn't know why. If it is his fault. What he's done wrong. 

Thranduil takes him to a small flat at Kastanienallee. He opens the windows with the white curtains, he lights a few candles and then sinks down into the silken cushions of a couch. Looks at him. And Thranduil's gaze is so cold it burns him. His dark brows knit together, his lips slightly parted.  
It's this moment he starts to undress. His shoes and socks first. Then his coat falls from his shoulders, he slips the tight black jeans off his hips and the oversized pullover off his shoulders. He's shivering in the cold. His bare feet on dusty parquet.  
He can hear the ticking of a clock somewhere nearby, he listens and listens and listens. The first candles start to flicker and die when Thranduil finally moves: Very slowly, he holds up his open right hand. Legolas moves, skin numb and heart racing. He kneels in front of him and Thranduil bends down, his cold lips brushing over Legolas' forehead.  
It's more than he could've expected and yet his eyes burn. He feels so heavy and hurt and he doesn't know why.

 

Nine months pass and he follows him around the world. He knows he should not. But what can you do when desire makes you a slave and yearning is its whip.  
They do not meet every time, eventhough Thranduil always knows he's there, watching, praying.  
He follows him to New York and the sun is up high and the streets are full of people talking, and there the stinking streets where rats gather at night, the buildings like glass and steel giants of ancient times.  
It's cold and raining when they arrive at the airport in Iceland, it's still summer and the man at the car-renting place tells him this is how their entire summer was like. He says he's sorry about that, the man frowns and says people do not come here for the weather. It takes him the whole day to find Thranduil again. The Blue Lagoons smell of sulphur, the blue, hot water calming his nerves. No-one is here and no light is on, but there he lays against a stone, head tilted back, showing his pearl-coloured throat. Strands of wet hair falling down on his bare shoulders. Mist hanging over the water, pale like a whisper of spider webs. Legolas does not approach him. He watches and wishes and burns and rejoices.  
It's October and Thranduil is wandering in the sunset over Deir-el-Bahri. Striding through the sand, his long hair golden in the dying sunlight. He wanders northwards, seawards. He passes by Hatshepsut's temple, Sublime of the Sublime. His long, delicate fingers, so full of strength, touch the stone like an old lover's face: Carefully, softly, full of hope and fear.

They go to other places, too. Places where he dares to approach. And his father laughs at him, for his childishness, for his naivety. But he does not care. He is happy.  
Time passes so strangely. There have been years, decades, he has simply forgotten about and minutes and seconds that boil and burn in his memory like a volcano. Seconds in which Thranduil lays his fingertips on his cheek, minutes when they sit together and no-one speaks a word.  
It has to end and he knows it. Obsessing is an illness he has to cure. 

It takes him three more months to make a decision.  
In March he is back in Berlin. It's still cold, the Russian wind blowing makes the thought of spring impossible. And yet the cold is sharp and cuts his illusions and hopes wide open like a knife a festering wound.  
He spends his time with reading, he's picked up Thus Spoke Zarathustra again and the strong and powerful words help him to cope with his own weakness. And he does. He copes. Because what else can he do?  
It's May now and the streets are busy, not like New York, not like Tokyo. Berlin is big, but it feels more like a collection of villages. Villages with all sorts of extraordinary people. And that's why he stays. Because he is never bored here. He starts seeing people, both men and women and they cure his loneliness, holding them and being held makes him forget. There is sunshine again and it makes him feel light, burns him but pleasantly so. It is still like a drug after all the years he had to spend in darkness. 

He's there in a club, dancing to an electro beat, smiling and drinking, then he's in the VIP area that really is nothing more than a small room with a curtain instead of a door. He sits down and takes the joint that is passed on to him. He breathes in deeply the sweet smoke and sinks back into the cushions. After the fifth round he starts to feel light and heavy at the same time. He closes his eyes and dreams of a sleeping giant on the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. There's a storm and the ship is thrown around by wind and waves, wood is breaking, sailors scream. It's cold and wet and dark as if ink poured down the heavy clouds. There is lightning and thunder in the air and everything is mute against the howl and growl of the storm. Then the giant breathes in – deeply. And the water opens up, is whirled downwards, forced into form with violence. A maelstrom. And the ship is slowly pulled in.

Legolas opens his eyes. Mere seconds have passed, but something has changed. And yes, there in the corner sits he. Thranduil, who bends forward, his silken hair framing his pale face. He bends over a small silver tablet and puts a finger-long crystal pipe to his nose. With a swift motion he snorts the white powder, his lips curl, then he throws his head back.  
A few more minutes pass until Legolas finds the power to stand up, but then he does, comes closer and kneels down in front of him, smooths his hair back and lays his cheek against Thranduil's knee. His father's lips arch into a smile, then Legolas is pulled upwards. Thranduil frames his head with both his hands and pulls him in to a kiss.  
Adrenaline rushes through his veins, then he opens his mouth for Thranduil's demanding tongue. He tries to push back, but his father has none of it. He claims him as he always does, totally. 

 

He takes them back to the flat at Kastanienallee again. This time, they both undress. Slowly, without hurry. It's a ritual, seldom performed and therefore precious. New candles are lit but the curtains are closed. Then Thranduil has him pinned down on the floor, in decades of dust that powder his skin with transcendence. 

A jewelled finger on his lips and Thranduil's whisper at his ear: “Don't make a sound.”  
But of course he does, of course when he lays writhing underneath him, ivory skin against ivory skin. And blue flowers start to bloom on both of them, made of longing and ire and desperation. Then Legolas holds him down and rides him, slowly, lips parted and he looks into Thranduil's eyes and it's the glacier breaking and an avalanche is born that takes everything in its way. And he, he is a snowflake, screaming and laughing and melting within his touch. 

They get violent in the end and he enjoys every second of it. First he's on his knees and Thranduil pushes his cock into him as if he wanted to destroy him until Legolas slides away, growling and Thranduil laughs and pulls him in roughly on his hair. Then his father is on top of him again and thrusts in harshly. Legolas pulls his nails down his back, arching his back and screaming his pleasure.  
It doesn't take long for either of them to spill, Legolas' pearly seed on their stomachs and Thranduil catches it with his fingertips and tastes it with his tongue.

“Oh vanity,” Thranduil murmurs when they lay naked and exhausted.  
He dares to put his head on his father's chest.  
“That's why you made me,” Legolas says. Thranduil chuckles.  
“Vanity? Yes. I couldn't resist, someone who looks just like me. I had to have you, my boy.”  
It's that easy. It only needs this confirmation of idle reasons to break his heart. Legolas knows it's foolish and without sense.  
“You love me not,” he says.  
“Oh, hush, my dear,” his father replies and slides his right hand to the nape of his neck.  
He wants to cry but he is too embarrassed to do so, too ashamed of his broken heart. It's one of these moments where he is all too aware of his youthful spirit, of the theatrical feelings inside him. But he feels destroyed and utterly so. 

“You will learn, son” Thranduil says calmly, “you will learn how to live with love and the absence of love. You will not be all right. Oh no, that's an illusion. There is no cure, there is only time. It will make you forget or numb. That is, if you are lucky. But you will learn how to bear the pain. Because there is nothing else you can do.”  
He slowly stands up with godlike grace. His body is like an ancient Greek statue, perfect proportions and cold and unyielding like stone. The candles have gone out and the pale street-lights paint everything in monochrome. And there he stands, Thranduil, eternal and elusive in monochrome.  
“My Lord,” he says and stands up, too. 

 

So, what do you do with a broken heart and an eternity to spare?  
The answer is easy. Amuse yourself.  
And that's what he does. It's one of those survival mechanism, he muses, it must be. And it is all right. He suffers and he rejoices and for a while he takes great pleasure in wasting his youth. He learns to treasure bad company and finds himself with a man who picks up trouble along the way as easy as he drinks everyone under the table. He has dark hair and stubbles on his chin and his smile is wicked in a boyish way. His name is Aragorn. They start fucking after a month and it does him good, both of them. Another month later they make friends with a short guy with a long beard who is from Scotland and likes to get into trouble just as much as they do. Aragorn calls them a gang and it makes Legolas laugh every time he says it. He knows these relationships only work for a while. Maybe five years, maybe ten. Until they start to notice that he doesn't age. But that's OK. He does not think as far as that right now. He thinks only until tomorrow. 

The more time passes by, the stronger he grows. It's time, yes, but it does not make him numb nor forget. He still has a broken heart, but that doesn't mean he can't be happy. There is a lot to experience in life, in a lifetime. And he's only just begun. He knows desperation waits for him along the way, but so does joy. 

 

It's two years later that he sees him again. Only for a couple of minutes. It's long after midnight. He is in London for a few weeks and now he stumbles through the streets in search for the right bus-line to Heaven. A club somewhere close to the National Gallery. The streets are abandoned and no bus in sight, but there he stands, leaning at a street lamp and watching him. He's not sure what he feels, apart from the adrenaline rushing through his veins. For a second he thinks of just walking away. Of course he doesn't.

“You've changed,” his father says calmly when he reaches him.  
“Have I, my Lord?” Legolas casts his gaze upwards to his face, blank and beautiful.  
“You have learned.” Thranduil says – and is that pride in his voice? He doesn't know and doesn't dare to hope, but he smiles at last.  
Thranduil's fingertips on his cheek. Legolas expects him to say something, anything, of meaning or of trivia, but his father, the mad king, his lord Thranduil says nothing. He just stands there, the shadow of the night underneath his high cheekbones and a smile that arches his lips. In the corner of his eyes Legolas can read malevolence and benevolence and he's not sure which is which. Boldly, he steps forward and kisses him on his left cheek. His father waits a moment before pushing him away.  
“Don't try your luck, boy,” he says with the usual arrogance in his calm voice.  
“But I do. I do,” Legolas says and Thranduil smirks.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! & also would love to know what you think of the story since I wrote it down in one piece. :)


End file.
